Readiest then what accents came?
Those that meant my Mother's name.
When my timid feet begun,
Strangely pleased, to stand or run,
'Twas my Mother's voice and eye
Most encouraged me to try,
Safe to run, and strong to stand,
Holding by her gentle hand.
Time since then hath deeper made
Lines, where youthful dimples played,
Yet to me my Mother's face
Wears a more angelic grace;
And her tresses thin and hoary,
Are they not a crown of glory?
Cruel griefs have wrung that breast,
Once my Paradise of rest;
While in these I bear a part,
Warmer grows my Mother's heart,
Closer our affections twine,
Mine with hers, and hers with mine.
Many a name, since hers I knew,
Have I loved with honour due,
But no name shall be more dear
Than my Mother's to mine ear.
Many a hand, that friendship plighted,
Have I clasped, with all delighted,
But more faithful none can be
Than my Mother's hand to me.
Thus by every tie endeared,
Thus with filial reverence feared,
Mother! on this day, 'tis meet
That, with salutation sweet,
I should wish you years of health,
Worldly happiness and wealth,
And, when good old age is past,
Heaven's eternal peace at last;
But with these I frame a vow
For a double blessing now;
One that richly shall combine
Your felicity with mine;
One, in which with soul and voice
Both together may rejoice;
Oh, what shall that blessing be?
Dearest Mother! may you see
All your prayers fulfilled for me!
ON THE EXPLOIT OF ARNOLD WINKELRIED, AT THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH, IN WHICH THE SWISS, FIGHTING FOR THEIR INDEPENDENCE, TOTALLY DEFEATED THE AUSTRIANS, IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.
"MAKE way for Liberty !"--he cried;
Made way for Liberty, and died!
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown ;
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frames should wear;
A wood, like that enchanted grove,*
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life:
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
Impregnable, their front appears
All horrent with projected spears,
Whose polished points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendours run
Along the billows to the sun.
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their native land:
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords;
And what insurgent rage had gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained:
Marshalled once more at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
* See Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered," Canto XVIII.
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.
And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned within,
The battle trembled to begin :
Yet while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 't were suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet ;-
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes the homes of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanking chains above their head?
It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power;
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield,-
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him,-Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see with sudden grace
The very thought come o'er his face;
And by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But, 't was no sooner thought than done;
The field was in a moment won :-
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp:
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried,
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly;
"Make way for Liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart ;
While instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all:
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free;
Thus Death made way for Liberty!
THE VIGIL OF ST. MARK.
RETURNING from their evening walk,
On yonder ancient stile,
In_sweet, romantic, tender talk,
Two lovers paused awhile:
Edmund, the monarch of the dale,
All conscious of his powers;
Ella, the lily of the vale,
The rose of Auburn's bowers.
In airy Love's delightful bands
He held her heart in vain ;
The nymph denied her willing hands
To Hymen's awful chain.
"Ah! why," said he, "our bliss delay?
Mine Ella, why so cold?
Those who but love from day to day,
From day to day grow old.
"The bounding arrow cleaves the sky,
Nor leaves a trace behind;
And single lives like arrows fly,-
They vanish through the wind.
In wedlock's sweet endearing lot
Let us improve the scene,
That some may be, when we are not,
To tell-that we have been."
""Tis now," replied the village belle,
"Saint Mark's mysterious eve;
And all that old traditions tell
I tremblingly believe :-
"How, when the midnight signal tolls,
Along the churchyard green
A mournful train of sentenced souls
In winding-sheets are seen:
"The ghosts of all whom Death shall doom Within the coming year,
In pale procession walk the gloom
Amid the silence drear!
"If Edmund, bold in conscious might,
By love severely tried,.
Can brave the terrors of to-night,
Ella will be his bride."
She spake, and, like the nimble fawn,
From Edmund's presence fled:
He sought, across the rural lawn,
The dwelling of the dead;-
That silent, solemn, simple spot,
The mouldering realm of peace,
Where human passions are forgot,
Where human follies cease.
The gliding moon through heaven serene
Pursued her tranquil way,
And shed o'er all the sleeping scene
A soft nocturnal day.
With swelling heart and eager feet
Young Edmund gained the church,
And chose his solitary seat
Within the dreadful porch.
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